A Brave, Dead World
by xXGageXx
Summary: Follow a man as he struggles through his every day life as a trader over twenty years after the fall of man to the undead hordes in a land where zombies aren't the only danger he faces.
1. The Wilderness

**A Brave, Dead World**

**Chapter 1 - The Wilderness**

Twilight had set in on the little hamlet of Hawthorne. A palette of natures most beautiful colors spread out above the landscape until it was swallowed into the distant horizons or met by the tree line of the nearby forest. Early fall had settled in already, turning the colors of the leaves with it's chilly, nightly tinge.

In another time, lights would have speckled the buildings as viewed from the hilltop at the end of the town. All the that could be seen in the dim light now was the moss and kudzu creeping up the sides of the buildings; the forest's attempt to reclaim what was taken from it many years ago. Trees and shrubs, left unchecked for probably decades, rooted themselves in the oddest places. Still, after all was said and done, it was still a serene sight to behold.

On that hilltop which once bared witness to the town stood a man wrapped in a tattered fur. A small grove of trees raised themselves just above the tall, yellow grass that enveloped the rest of the hilltop. As the last rays of sunlight crept below the horizon, the man sighed and shook his head. His steps were heavy as he made his way into the center of the grove.

Already, under the canopy of branches, night had fallen in his little sanctuary. There was a certain tree he was looking for, but it was easy to find having been engrained in his memory over several years. Chuckling to himself, the man wrapped his arms around a young oak tree. With a grunt he began to scale up it's side, his backpack and fur shifting to either side of him as he made his ascent. A good ways off the ground, a good sized branch snaked it's way into the heart of a thicket of pine trees. The man inhaled deeply, savoring the scent as it had been a few seasons since he had last encountered it.

Once the branch pierced the pine needles and limbs, the man entered a den of sorts. Branches from the pine trees intertwined with each other to make a sturdy floor. The small spaces in between the them appeared to have the same pine needles and pieces of bark the man had left there last time he had been through, however he knew they would have to be replaced soon if they were to continue to conceal his little grotto from the ground if he lit a candle to read by.

It wasn't very big, but it gave him enough room to lay down and keep anything he could carry on him by his side. Pegs jutting from the tree itself, the remains of branches he had cut away long ago, made ideal places to hang his cloths and his backpack along with whatever else he could drape over them.

He laid the fur down next to him and stretched with a yawn. Body odor and the stale smell of dirt came to his nose;his long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans hadn't been washed in ages. Hopefully, his undershirt was somewhat presentable. The rest of what few cloths he had were over a hundred miles away.

Absent-mindedly he swung his backpack around and began to rummage through it. Matches, a first aid kit, and several other small, necessary items littered the top of the bag. Setting most of these aside, he grinned when he picked up the shaving mirror. The razor was strapped to it with a couple of rubber bands, and after removing it he stared at himself for a moment. Wrinkles had began to spread across his features and into his shadowy stubble. Luckily, though, he didn't see any grey in his semi-long, matted, brown hair. How old was he now? Thirty-five or so? There was no telling. He hadn't been to a town with an accurate calendar in a couple of years, and had forgotten with the seasons his exact age. For now, he decided he would assign the arbitrary age of thirty-five to himself, in case anyone asked.

After setting down the mirror next to the razor, he pulled out perhaps his most valuable possession; a large pistol that made a big noise. Guns weren't his strong point. He had been young and very nieve when it was given to him. Several people had told him over the years that it was a .45, and whenever he came across a gunsmith he would barter to have it serviced, and buy bullets if he felt he needed to. Gunsmith. That was such an old word which had outlived it's use in the old world. Now, though, if you owned a gun store you would starve after a while. There was good business in guns, but only if you could work on them, and especially if you could manufacture your own bullets and shells.

The next item was something he liked to call his spring shot. On the outskirts of one of the old world's metropolitans, a place called Philadelphia, the man had spent the winter in a community that had managed to hold out against the new perils of the world. The people had named their little hole of the world Defiance, and he met an old man there, an inventor even.

Arthur, the old man, had built an invention which had served him well in the first years since the Fall, but he had grown too old and feeble to use it. The spring shot was shaped somewhat like a gun, except that the barrel was much larger. By rotating a disc on the back of it, one could adjust the metal pincers inside so that it could hold anything inside of it with a circumference of less than a half of an inch of that of the barrel. A handle in the back, when turned and pulled, would pull a spring back and would then allow loading of the weapon. After loading a projectile in it, whether it be a sturdy stick or perhaps even a rock, a quick pull of the trigger would open the pincers, release the spring, and send the projectile flying. It was amazing how sturdy it was built and how long it had lasted. It was well worth the chicken and the roll of wire he traded for it.

The man debated on lighting one of the candles he had and reading one of the old comic books he had found while searching a house a few days ago, but decided against it. Almost instinctively he set about his nightly routine. Out of the backpack he pulled out a piece of metal, tapering to a sharpened point, with leather straps on the bottom of it. Above these straps were small, metal o-rings which he could slide his fingers into. The steel was cold on the top of his hand as he strapped it, but it had a strange, soothing quality to it. The back of it was just wide enough to cover his arm below the elbow, and his fingers gripped it comfortably.

Exhaustion kept him from loading the spring shot, which he always did before laying down for the night. In the confines of his elevated grotto, the arm-blade should suffice. In the event that it didn't, the pistol should. Noise was something he like to avoid, but right then he was too tired to care.

He was careful to replace everything else into the backpack as quietly as he could. The crinkle of plastic caught his ear, and he removed a pack of jerky he had picked up a few towns back. It was salty and tough, exactly what anyone should expect out of jerky. It was nice to snack on, but he had began to rely on it more and more on his trips out into the wilderness. Packaged food with a long life was scarce, coming out of only a handful of towns. Even when you came upon one of these towns it was hard to acquire any unless you lived in the community which produced it or had a lot to trade for it.

A gentle tug lifted the canteen at his side out of it's pouch. After finishing the jerky, he opened it and put it to his lips, letting the water rush down his throat in gulps. In the new world fresh water was harder to come by. Most of the reservoirs, lakes, and rivers around and down stream of old world cities were contaminated. A greasy film covered the top, and even boiling the water to purify it wasn't a certainty. Normally he would be a little more conservative with his water supplies, but he knew of a lake a few miles away that was pure.

The man laid down and took one more swig of the water before capping the canteen and hanging it next to him. It was an eerie thing, the silence. A few crickets chirped off in the distance, but the immediate vicinity was deadly quiet. Something down the hill caught his ears. It was leaves rustling. One or two of them from the town had seen him atop the hill. At least one always did. With a smile, he scooted against the tree and closed his eyes. The sweet embrace of sleep was swift, and he never heard the low moans from below his little home in the trees.

XxXxXxXx

"Great," the man said sarcastically as he looked down on the small mob gathered below him. Having full intentions to sleep in since he had found relative safety, he wasn't in the best of moods when he had been awakened by the sun's first rays breaking across the east to the sound of excited moans from beneath him.

There were four of them, all of them heavily decayed. Were there anymore around, they would already have been underneath him. After deciding there wasn't any hurry, he began to study the creatures below him. After seeing so many of them in his lifetime, it was almost a hobby to watch them when they didn't pose an immediate threat.

Three women and a man. One of the women was completely nude, revealing her gory, sore-riddled body in all of it's glory. The few tatters and rags which clung to the other three must have resembled clothing at one time. He almost gagged when he noticed how much one of the women had decayed. While her arms and legs seemed to be intact, gaping holes in the flesh of her chest and stomach put what was left of her organs, now a gelatinous mush, on display. Having been empty, the socket of her left eye had became a black hole, beckoning him from down below.

Within a few seconds, the spring shooter was in his hands. A quick look inside the backpack under the pastel light of the early morning yielded four bundles of small metal cylinders. Without any sense of urgency, he began to unwrap one of the bundles and placed one of the cylinders inside the spring shot. A few twists of the disc and it was secured in place. Placing his right hand on the back of it, he twisted the handle and began to pull back. He jumped when one of the creatures let out a loud, rabid growl, causing him to let go of the handle before it was locked into place. He cursed as the cylinder sailed upwards into the sky.

After the initial aggravation had subsided, he repeated the process and turned the handle until it clicked into place. An eruption of growls and moans went out through the trees as he leaned over, taking a few minutes with his aim until one of them stayed still long enough. With a loud "thunk", the cylinder exited the spring shot and struck the naked woman in the head. It was a bit to the left, and the ease with which it passed through her head made him worry that it hadn't pierced the brain, but when she slumped to the ground he knew he had hit his mark.

He repeated the process three more times, and then nodded in approval at the bodies down below. Even after all this time, he still got a little anxious even being around the dead. However, he had come a long way since the Fall. Everyone had. It was a necessity.

Dreading the task of dragging the bodies away from his abode, the man took his time as he prepared breakfast. In all the excitement, he hard hardly noticed how chilly it had gotten while he slept until he noticed his breath materializing in front of him as he opened the pack of jerky. It wouldn't be long, he thought, until the sun's rays would be shining through the treetops.

Not satisfied with just the salty jerky, he dug through the bottom of his backpack until he found a small plastic jar containing some wild blackberries he had picked. It was very unusual for them to be ripe this time of the year, and the ones he had found were still a little off-colored, but the tangy sourness of unripened berries was better than none at all.

And so he sat down in his grotto, devouring his feast of jerky, berries, and water. In the surrounding trees a small choir of birds serenaded him. By the time he had finished breakfast the sun was shining through the limbs, allowing him to take off his over shirt. A quick sniff of the pine needles excited his senses as he stood up, holding the trunk of the tree with his right hand. For now, everything was perfect.

Finally, he put the pistol into his pocket after turning the safety on. A small rumble, barely audible to him, sounded when he dumped the contents of his bag onto the floor carefully. Last time he had been through those parts, a small community still existed on the other side of the town. After seeing the creatures that had wished to make him their next meal, he doubted they had moved into the town.

Three comic books he didn't really care for, a cloth wrapped around various nuts, bolts, nails, and wires, and two cigarette lighters went into his pack. It wasn't much for his first bartering expedition, but he hoped to pass through a couple of the houses at the edge of town. With any luck he should be able find enough odds and ends to keep his stomach full for a week or so without having to do too much hunting.

With that, he climbed out onto the branch. Surveying the area halfway across, he dropped his backpack to the ground with a thud once he was satisfied nothing else lurked around the grove. More than likely he could have dropped to the ground himself, but he was more cautious than that. All it would take out there was one mistake to lead to a slow painful death. Careful not to scrape his arm-blade on the bark, he climbed across the branch and down the oak tree.

Some people would have vomited being that close to the creatures, their stench seeming to grow worse with each second. He, like many others, had come to tolerate it. No one ever really got used to that smell, but it was tolerable after a while. After retrieving the metal cylinders that pierced the creatures skulls, he set them aside to be cleaned and boiled later and stomped on each one of their skulls. The vibrant sound of his whistling joined the birds' song as he grabbed what he figured was the heaviest of the four by the ankles and began to drag it down the hill.


	2. A Day In The Life

**A Brave, Dead World**

**Chapter 2 - A Day In The Life**

A disturbing, creaking sound followed the twist of the door knob. With a sigh, the man pushed the door open and stepped back, readying his arm-blade. He stood rigid for a couple of minutes, straining his ears to hear anything that might be moving inside the house. Small clouds of dust, stirred by the slight breeze blowing through the door, was all that awaited him. If anything was inside, it hadn't caught onto him yet. Raising his arm-blade out in front of him, he stepped inside the small house.

Hit and run was the strategy most of the people he had encountered employed. Kick the door in, run from room to room, and take whatever you can get your hands on. He preferred the more subtle approach. Sudden movements attracted their attention more than anything with the exception of loud noises. Learning this lesson had almost cost him his life a long time ago. Since then, he had been better off than most doing things his way.

Flicking the light switch was a futile movement which didn't surprise him. The last two houses he had searched were also without power, but it was always nice to find a house with a solar-powered generator still in operation or one that was still linked to an old world powerhouse that was still online. Each year, though, they became harder and harder to find.

The few rays of sunlight that entered the single window in the room he was standing in were distorted by the years of grime compacted onto the glass. He was surprised he could even see at all, but the miniature flashlight he kept in his pocket would make up for the filthy windows. Once upon a time, this had been a lavish if small house. Time had since taken it's toll. Torn bits of fabric and stuffing littered the room, with little brown pellets strewn about to indicate the perpetrators. Shattered glass glistened on the floor next to the farthest wall. Small bits of sheet rock and the corresponding holes in the wall coupled with what appeared to be remnants of picture frames gave him the impression that instead of a struggle years past, the wall wasn't a sturdy enough home for such weight.

Much his dismay, it appeared that this house had been pillaged some time ago like the other two he had searched that day. Muddy footprints, long dried and imbedded into the carpet, trailed each way from the living room. Drawers littered the hallway to what had to have been the bedrooms and bathroom, the actual dresser nowhere in sight. All he had to show for the day so far was an old tv remote with some batteries inside, a few dust-covered books, and a well-kept doll. Surely his luck would improve here, else wise he might have to backtrack and procure all the smaller items such as papers and rags.

It was stuffy inside the house as he searched the living room and then the kitchen, the breeze only alleviating the living room in front of the door. He could have opened the windows to allow for better ventilation, but apprehension had already gripped him, increasing every second he stayed inside that house.

A quick but thorough run-through of the house yielded two archaic compact discs which he could remember being of the country music genre, three long wires that were undoubtedly used to connect from the back of a tv to a video game system, and a near-perfect condition New York Yankees baseball cap. Every now and then he would come across something that would trigger some sort of nostalgia, but this was by far one of his more emotionally-stimulating moments.

A solitary tear made it's way down his right cheek as he slipped the ball cap on his head. Shattered, hazy visions played through his head. Words, most written in cursive, imposed themselves upon the young children playing baseball; those words had been the names scrawled onto his first baseball glove. Shaking his head vehemently, he stuffed the wires and cds into his backpack with the rest of his findings.

A low moan echoed through the alley ways and empty streets when he stepped back out into the breeze, signaling that one of them had seen him. It was just as well that he be on his way as the trek through the woods to the community would take the better part of three house. A considerably shorter journey could be made by going through the town, but he learned long ago to avoid even apartment complexes if at all possible. Other than the undead menace every dark spot of world seemed to cradle, bandits liked to frequent the places mankind used to call home. In most scenarios, it would be far better to run into a group of the creatures than a gang of bandits.

Upon exiting the building he had made sure his flanks were clear, then closed the door behind him and began at a jog towards the edge of the woods. Although fall wasn't wasting anytime setting in, the sweet smell of honey suckles loomed in the air. He thought about what was behind him, and the wonderful scent that caressed his senses. Life seemed to be full of these contrasts. Death and birth, morbidity and beauty, love and hate; all residing together within the same confines.

Several hundred yards through the woods, he came to the path which led to the community. One setting his feet upon it, he hunched over and caught his breath. After a small gulp from his canteen, he continued onwards.

Like a snake winding it's way through the grass the small trail led him further and further into the forest. For years he wondered why the trail meandered so, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that it had been there before the Fall. It had to have been, and the reason for it's indirect path was that it was meant just for a trail, and nothing else. No destination had even been set for it until necessity called for it.

Over an hour after the beginning of his journey, an all too familiar sound again echoed amongst the trees. Turning to his left, he saw one of them slowly limping towards him. The slight level of decay made his heart jump. It must have turned within the last few months, and he hoped it didn't foreshadow what he was to expect once he got to the community.

After taking a quick look around and confirming he only had one of them to deal with he set his backpack down. Reluctantly he trudged off the trail towards the monstrosity. Standing a few heads taller then him, he knew if he were to go at it with the arm-blade he would have to use more caution that normal. He planted his feet firmly as he stopped just feet in front of it's advance.

It quickened it's pace, almost falling to the ground as it neared it's prey. A swift kick to the leg knocked the creature down to one knee. Threatening to bite into him as it fell forward, he jumped back, and as the creature's head slammed into a small patch of humus, he brought the blade down, piercing the creature's skull and imbedding it into the soft soil below the humus.

His breathing was coming very rapidly now. Fear still gripped him whenever he was confronted with one of them. After all this time, he thought he would have overcome his fear. Disappointment shadowed his heart once again, as it had so many times before. As he looked down at the motionless corpse in front of him, he knew he didn't deserve to live as long as he had. Millions or perhaps even billions of people stronger and more capable had perished while he hid with what was left of his family. In this new world, mankind would probably have been served better if he had died with all of the others.

The arm-blade made a sickening noise as it was jerked back out of the creature's skull. In life it had been a man, probably in his early twenties. In these particular parts, most of the residents' cloths were hand-made whereas his seemed to be from the old world. In all probability it had wondered there from somewhere else, but that still raised the question of where. Was it from a fallen sanctuary? Or had the person it once been traveled to the old hamlet of Hawthorne and had turned there for some reason?

Anxiety began to gnaw at him. Noon had come and gone already, and there was still a good bit of ground to cross before he came to the community. In the event it had fallen and was now swarming with the creatures, he wanted to have enough time to lose any of them by nightfall. Deep in thought, he stumbled backward and fell over a stump.

"Get ahold of yourself," he said to himself, noticing how close the arm-blade had been to opening up the side of his stomach. After getting to his feet, he jogged back to the trail and slung on his backpack. Off in the distance, somewhere out of his line of sight, another moan echoed, and then another. He couldn't tell how many of them were out there, but after the sixth or seventh moan, he decided there were enough that he didn't want to come face to face with them.

He patted his waist to make sure his pistol was still there. It was a wonder it hadn't slid down his pants leg already. The bill of his cap veered off slightly to the right, grating his nerves when he realized it. After setting the cap straight, he turned and bolted down the trail.

XxXxXxXx

Sweat poured off the drenched cap and into his eye as the community came into view through the trees. Not only was it still there, he was glad to see that it had even prospered since he had last been there. New shanties and lean-tos spread outwards from the a large barn which had been somewhat restored since being inhabited after the Fall.

A short wooden palisade of sorts surrounded the community. It's interlocking wooden pieces were of all different species of tree and stage of production from large limbs to salvaged, treated two-by-fours. If anything besides one of the creatures wished to go beyond the palisade it could do so with ease, but it served it's purpose.

The gate was actually a door from a house hinged to the right side of the open spot. A notch had been cut out of the opposite side for the actual door handle to function and lock. Inside, one of the old chain locks was still employed. Behind the gate was a crude-looking bench, and upon it was the "guard" as the towns people called him. Bill Brunsley, an old-timer who was probably good for nothing besides talking and sitting.

"Hey boy!" Bill yelled as the man came into view, noting the addition of the small sign with "Hawthorne" written in spray paint, "What business do ya got 'ere?"

"I come to trade, Bill," he said as Bill struggled to lift his obese body off the bench, using the shotgun for support. Hawthorne Community might not have had any capable wood-workers, but at least two of their residents had a good knowledge in fire-arms and improvised munitions.

"Who the hell are ya ta know my name?" Bill said with a snarl as he hobbled quick as his thick legs could take him to the gate.

"You don't remember the man who traded you that grease gun and moonshine a few years back?" he replied.

"Oh," Bill said with a look of disdain, "It's you. Ya know ya were long gone by the time I sobered up and realized I din' have no damn use fer that grease gun?"

"I figured as much," the man said, blushing a bit, "But I sure did enjoy the raincoat, the bandana, and the corn."

"Eh!" the old man said as he threw his hands up and opened the door, "If ya have a notion to screw someone else like ya did me, I might just have a notion to blow yer damn head off!"

"Sure Bill," he said as he stepped inside the gate,avoiding the old man's gaze.

He hastened away from Bill as quickly as he could for fear that the old man would cause a scene. His interactions with humans were just as limited in scope as those with the creatures. Regardless of the situation people always made him uncomfortable, even a bit shy. Very few people in the last two decades could say they knew him, and most of them were dead or had traveled somewhere else.

Children laughed as they played in the path up ahead of him. The sweet, juicy smell of freshly cooked bacon filled the streets. Various sounds of people working filled his ears. Life seemed to have a resemblance of normality here. Perhaps not when compared to life before the Fall, but he was amazed by how many sects of people still roamed the countryside half-starved or tried to carve out a meager existence in the old cities. Much more comfortable and luxurious settlements existed, but they were few and far in between. Still, this place was much more hospitable than even most of those.

Shoddy booths lined the path alongside the shanties. A clothing booth and what had come to be known as a general store were the first two he came to. This was fortunate because most of the other booths didn't sell anything necessary. Perhaps some crafts, or relics from the old world, but that was it in most cases.

"Hi," a young, slender man said from the general store booth as the man stepped up, "What can I do for you?"

"I need some food," he said as he slid his backpack off and began setting the contents down on the trading table.

"Hey, aren't you the guy who came by a few winters ago?" the booth attendant asked as he scratched his head, "And you helped us build a couple of buildings to keep the chickens in?"

"Yep," the man said, "That's me."

"Well my dad was the guy you built them for," the attendant said, placing his hands on his hips with a smile.

"What can you give me for this?" the man said, arranging all the spoils to make them more appealing. Both men were silent for a moment as the man looked the attendant square in the eyes, the attendant not very appreciative about being cut-off. After a minute, though, something caught his eye.

"Wow," the young attendant said as he picked up the comic books, "I never seen any of these before. Picture books, eh? I'll give you a half pound of either peas or a couple of potatoes for them."

"No," the man said with a laugh, "I can get a lot more for these back east."

"They're just books," the attendant, "We don't have much use for them out here."

"Alright," the man said as he began to put them back in his bag, calling the attendant's bluff.

"A pound of peas," the attendant said.

"And one potato?" the man asked.

"Fine," the attendant said with a sigh, then gestured towards the old console wires, "But throw in those."

"Well you throw in another potato, or a pound of something else," the man said.

"Why?" the attendant asked, "We don't have even less use for wires than we do for books."

"I thought you still had lights running off the generators?" the man replied with a sly smile.

"A handful of corn and two peaches," the attendant said.

"Sounds good to me," the man said.

And so they haggled for quite a while, each trying to out-do the other. Granted most of the items he brought to the table were of questionable use at best most people still liked to have a variety of different things to trade at a later date. When all was said and done he had managed to get about two weeks worth of food out of him, which was a lot better than he had hoped for. Better still, each of them had a smile of his face when the transaction was done.

"You sure do drive a hard bargain," the attendant said.

"You try to," the man said, "But I have to eat."

"You know," the attendant started, "In all the years you've been coming here I don't think I have ever got your name."

"Not many people have," the man said.

"Well, will you tell me for a couple more potatoes?" the attendant asked with a grin.

"Dave," the man said with little hesitation, always eager to make a deal.

**Author's Note: I hope everyone enjoys my latest story. Any thoughts on the story would be much appreciated!**


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